


Under the Weather

by Amruniel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 19:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15541254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amruniel/pseuds/Amruniel
Summary: A heatwave, a late-night call, and two men in love.





	Under the Weather

**Author's Note:**

> I fully blame Mister Orlando Bloom for this fic - without [ (t)his Instagram post ](https://www.instagram.com/p/BkfnmTBBPWG/), this wouldn't have happened!

# Under the Weather

 

“-llo?”

 

“Care to explain?“

 

Caught between a yawn and a smirk, Orlando’s reply came out as a rather garbled, ineloquent “Uahhhgn?”

 

“I asked,” the voice at the other end of the phone call enunciated carefully, “if you’d fucking. Care. To. Explain?”

 

The unrepentant smirk gracing the handsome, if slightly sleep-rumpled features grew a fraction, only to be hastily wrangled back into submission. The caller’s words were a delightful mixture of poked-bear-in-hibernation grumble and badly-veiled amusement. Just the reaction Orlando had hoped for. But that only meant that any traces of his amusement had to go. And quickly. He might be an actor, and not a bad one if he said so himself, but the other man knew him so well, knew his many moods and sounds so thoroughly, that he could easily detect even the slightest facial expression from the other side of the world even if it was filtered through the worst crackling connection since the invention of telephones.

 

“Explain what?” A second, only slightly faked, yawn successfully covered the last traces of triumphant glee, buying Orlando enough time to re-arrange his face into the perfect picture of innocent confusion.

 

The thought that if he could successfully pull this off, he had most certainly done the best acting of his whole career without anybody witnessing it, flashed through his mind as he allowed his body to slump back down into the downy softness of his pillow. Being ripped out of a technicolour dream of himself doing cartwheels down a snow-covered mountain by the shrill tones of his overly-loud cell phone didn’t rank high on his mental list of ‘favourite things in life’, the voice on the other end of the call, however, did. The fact that his lover had jumped straight to the question without any social niceties or even a hello, only served to rank the moment higher up.

 

“Explain that video. Don’t play dumb!”

 

Oh, now they were definitely past mere grumbling and straight on to annoyance. The little devil living in the back of his mind, who had come up with _The Idea_ , gleefully jumped up and down. Orlando bit down on his tongue. Hard. It just wouldn’t do to laugh. Not now. Though, as the little devil helpfully pointed out, doing just that might actually play into his hand and rile the other man up a little bit more.

 

“It’s…,” Orlando chanced a glance at the numbers projected in a dimly glowing red onto the underside of the bookshelf above his headboard, “…in the middle of the fucking night. Stop being all vague or I’m going back to sleep, babe!”

 

Actually, it was four-fourteen on Sunday, July 1st, and with that approximately two and a half days later than when he had expected the call. But then again, by now Orlando really should know better than to expect anything with his eccentric, creative, and so very unpredictable lover.

 

“Or-lan-do,” the caller sighed, uncharacteristically.

 

The other man sounded tired and cranky. There was exasperation in his voice, but they were still not even close to dangerously irate territory. Orlando, after all these years, was a connoisseur of all his lover’s moods too.

 

“Yes?” Being still firmly on safe ground, Orlando decided to go with sleepy innocence for a little while longer. Not that the sleepy part needed any conscious work. A low hum of pleasure escaped his lips as he turned his head, snuggling his cheek deeper into the, oh so alluringly soft, pile of feathery goodness.

 

“I swear, you’d be begging for a good spanking if I were there!” The caller’s words were delivered in a low, threatening growl that would have sent lesser men scrambling.

 

Orlando was proud to say he was made of sterner stuff. Though he had to concede to needing to re-focus his drifting mind in order to uncurl his toes. “But you’re not, and you’re still talking in riddles,” he pointed out, not illogically. A particularly laudable feat, he thought, in face of his blood being suddenly intent on relocating south at the mental image of _might have beens_. Not that they would have this conversation if his lover was at his side. But then again, when had they ever needed a reason to engage in a bit of friendly spanking to liven things up?

 

“When exactly did my threats cease working on you?” The other man’s question nearly managed to sound convincingly curious. It was a rhetoric question, and they both knew it.

“Probably around the time you first mashed your head against my forehead.” Orlando’s shrug sent a sizzle of static down the line. “Must have crushed the brain area responsible for survival instincts in me.”

 

“As if you had one to begin with,” the caller scoffed, good-naturedly. This, too, was a familiar argument.

 

“Ha-ha. Can we save the sweet-talk for later, and get to the point?” Any other time and Orlando would have gladly engaged in their customary back and forth of gentle (and not so gentle) ribbing that equalled foreplay in their relationship. Others might not understand it, but in a love conceived in the movie-equivalent of an extended schoolboy survival trip, loving insults equated romantic sonnets. Not that there has been a lack of sensual, intimate poetry. Quite contrary. Both men were just as prone to dishing out abuse as they were likely to turn poetic at the drop of a hat. Unsurprising, for the love between a cosmopolitan artist, multilingual in both verbal and artistic expression, and an actor nursed on Marlowe and nurtured by Shakespeare.

 

“It’s not me, who is skirting the issue, love,” the gravelly voice pointed out. Not unreasonably.

 

“Whatever,” Orlando sighed, rubbing a wary hand across his face. “What exactly do you want me to say?” As much as he loved their banter, and as much as he had wanted to provoke a reaction, this conversation wasn’t going anywhere, and still effectively prevented him from catching a few more hours of badly needed sleep. Despite all protests to the contrary, he wasn’t getting any younger, and the long hours in the theatre combined with the attention, willingly given as it was, that his family demanded, were taking their toll.

 

“I want,” the caller murmured, his attention briefly diverted by the muted sounds of doors opening and closing that filtered dimly down the line. “I want to know what you were thinking. No, don’t answer that. I want to know what you were fucking _doing_!”

 

The emphasis on the last of the low, grumbled words, lit a brief flicker of amusement in Orlando’s tired eyes. So that was where they were going.

 

“Doing when?” the young man asked, clinging to his pretence of confusion while his mind quickly sorted through the possible answers and their likely outcomes.

 

“Doing in that damn video you saw fit to share with half the globe,” the artist clarified in a tone of voice that brooked no argument, forestalling another protestation of innocent confusion.

 

Orlando mentally switched gears. He knew the other man well enough to recognize the signs of patience stretched thin and, he allowed a satisfied smile to take up residence around the corners of his lips, jealousy rearing its ugly head. Not that there was any reason for that.

 

“Been stalking the interwebs again, have we?” he teased gently.

 

“You knew I’d see it.”

 

The response was as quick as it was expected.  Orlando’s PR people might still labour under the impression that their constant nagging about him getting into the 21st century had worn his resolve thin, but they both knew better. Broadening his base and satisfying his fans had been the primary reason for finally giving in to the demands of his people. And accordingly, it wasn’t for his 1.8 million Instagram followers and the thousands of lurkers that he posted his various photos and videos. Sure, he used the platform offered so freely to promote the causes he was passionate about, trying to raise awareness in order to make even the smallest difference for people so much less fortunate than himself. But in the end, it was for an audience of one that he documented his life.

 

Years of hiding a long-distance relationship, topped off with disagreements and misgivings that could have been prevented otherwise, and the stubborn, catastrophic misunderstanding and its much-beloved consequence that had nearly ruined them for good, had taught them valuable lessons, about the unequivocal, imperative need to share even the most mundane, in particular.

 

“I miss you.” There was no need to acknowledge the rightness of the other man’s observation. But there was need for voicing the truth.

 

“And shoving three fingers up your ass on camera seemed to be a good way of communicating that?” the voice was laced with badly concealed exasperation.

 

“Waiwhaaa?” Orlando spluttered. Trust his lover to toss some ridiculous notion out as if it were the most logical conclusion.

 

“I know that moan. You only sound like that when I first enter you. When the force of me stretching you wide open pushes the air from your lungs.”

 

The quiet self-assurance in the low murmur caressed his senses, slithered down Orlando’s nerves, raising goose-bumps along the back of his neck.

 

“But you weren’t there,” Orlando pointed out, barely suppressing the slight hitch in his voice. He was fighting hard against his body’s reaction to the sinful words of his lover.

 

“Hence the three fingers,” the voice pointed out. “Suitably big to make you moan, like my cock.” This time, the sexy smirk gracing the other man’s features could be clearly heard. He knew what his lover needed. And he knew he measured up.

 

“You fucking cunt!” Orlando groaned, reaching down to squeeze his rapidly filling erection. "There were people around!"

 

"Uh... kinky." For the first time the voice on the other end of the call openly carried traces of amusement. “There you are in the middle of a crowd, fingers up your lovely ass, and people call me the exhibitionist.”

 

“There were no fingers. Not one. Certainly not three. None!” Orlando huffed. His lover should really credit him with a bit more skill. He wasn’t an actor for nothing, thank you very much! It wasn’t as if he didn’t know exactly how he sounded in the throes of passion. Loving a man who was as creative as he was crazy and who had an exhibitionist streak a mile wide, led to sexual escapades leaning very much to the daring side. Factor in the other man’s obsession with cameras and his nearly unbounded devotion to visual stimuli, and there were more than enough sex-tapes and memory cards of them going at it enthusiastically, floating around their various homes, and -in some particularly explicit and kinky cases- safe deposit boxes.  In other words, Orlando really didn’t need to search far to find out exactly how he sounded at that moment he knew turned on his lover the most. And his teachers at the Guildhall would certainly be ever so pleased with his ability to recreate such a visceral, intimate sound. And flawlessly, at that, if his lover’s reaction was anything to go by. They certainly had taught him well.

 

A low chuckle pulled him from his mental bow before his erstwhile faculty. “That’s exactly what I would say if I were the good, squeaky clean, teen-audience approved Mister Heartthrob in this relationship.”

 

"Piss off! My fucking father and my son were there, for goodness sake! He misses you, by the way."

 

"Colin or Flynn?" The raspy voice grew warm with fondness.

 

"Both, actually." Orlando chuckled affectionately. His father, for all his faults, had been their staunchest supporter over the years. Not a single conversation passed without the older man asking after his "super-secret son-in-law". His father and his lover had bonded over fishing and the tales of woe that accompanied raising teenaged sons. Orlando, barely past adolescent himself back then, had -at times- hated them for it. Now, he loved them fiercely for showing him the ropes of being a good father. "But it's Mini-me who is constantly asking when you'll be back home."

 

Flynn, as all children of voluntary or obliged cosmopolitans like musicians, athletes, diplomats, actors, or military personnel, had learned very early on that home wasn't a place, but the people you love. With both parents standing in the glare of public attention, and a step-father he wasn't allowed to mention outside a small circle of trust, Flynn's life, even at the best of times, was difficult. Orlando tried his best to make life as stable and dependable as possible for his son, never failing to adhere to their established rituals, and trying to change the structure of their shared lives as little as possible, wherever they found themselves. At times, keeping their precarious position of balance between the necessary transparency to the public in order to keep paps and papers from digging too deep and the yearned-for anonymity to protect their family's secrets, left him feeling like a balancing act, trying to survive crossing the canyon between skyscrapers, knowing that just one misstep would mean certain destruction for his carefully built act and image, while a gale-force strength wind tore at him from all sides. But then he found himself simply lounging on a sofa, listening to the sounds of life outside filtering in through the windows, his little sunshine nestled warm against his side as he napped, and he knew he'd do anything, give everything, to protect him.

 

"What have you told him?"

 

"Soon...." Orlando sighed wistfully. He hated the vague non-answers he found himself reduced to too often.

 

"Hmmmmmhn,” his lover hummed, apparently distracted by the lilting, melodic words of a female voice that could dimly be heard in bits and pieces over the line. "Hang on a second, yeah?"

 

Rumbling cracks nearly deafening his still night-sensitive ear told Orlando that his partner had covered the speaker with his hand, presumably to speak to the interloper in a more normal volume than his customary intimate ‘early morning phone call’ murmur.

 

The pleasant sensation of the warm raise and fall of his lover’s voice, muted enough to make individual words undistinguishable, but not enough to completely block the sound, lulled Orlando into sleepy relaxation. He let his mind drift aimlessly, distantly wondering when he would be able to fall asleep to the sounds of his lover puttering about in the next room again. He missed hearing the hushed phone calls to relatives in different time-zones, and the muted shouts of abuse or encouragement whenever his lover’s team played on TV.

 

“You have no idea where I am, do you?”

 

The suddenly loud, focussed words invading his consciousness ruthlessly pulled Orlando from the pleasant haze of dozing.

 

“Hm?” He rubbed a weary hand across his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain effort to jolt himself back to wakefulness.

 

“You have no idea where I am…” his lover repeated patiently. After all the years together, he knew better than to expect his lover to stay awake during necessary lulls in their late night-early morning long-distance conversations.

 

“Should I?” Orlando parried around a jaw-splitting yawn.

 

“If you want to answer your son’s questions truthfully, then yes, probably.”

 

“Did you tell me?” The tired man wasn’t above a spot of unjustified whining, he discovered to his own dismay. Somewhere at the back of his mind he was sure the other man had informed him about his itinerary. He usually did. But fuck if he could remember. In truth, he couldn’t even reliably say if his lover was off promoting something, visiting someone, or had a shoot or show scheduled. The stress of rehearsals and fighting off demands for his time and attention left, right, and centre, had rendered most of the last few, too short weeks (or was it days?) they had managed to spend together nothing more than a vague blur of stolen moments of intimacy, shared breakfasts that usually saw him wolf down plain toast and too-strong coffee standing up while his son and lover enjoyed the merits of a Full English, tired hugs soothing away his frustration and aches at the end of the day, and a memorable night of vigorous fucking when Flynn was safely ensconced at his honorary godfather’s city flat for the night.

 

The faint rustle of moving clothes was all the cue Orlando needed to know his partner was fondly shaking his head. Of course, the other man knew just as well how scatter-brained he had been when they had last been face to face. “You remember we do have a shared calendar for a reason?” the soft, gravelly voice teased gently. “If you would stop posting lewd videos and pictures of Mighty  for a second or two, you could spare a moment to have a look. That capricious electronic monster you call a phone seems to be permanently attached to your hand these days anyway.”

 

“Hrmpf!” Not that his lover was far off the mark, but Orlando felt the need to make his displeasure at the assessment known anyway. Childish as the impulse might be. “You know I hate that fucking thing.” Both, the phone, and the calendar, if he were honest. The first was a necessary evil, and he still couldn’t understand how his lover managed to make do with his ancient flip phone that couldn’t even handle basic emailing, let alone how his management let him get away with this disregard of the 21st century’s credo of constant reachability. He envied him for that. Just switching off and disappearing off the grid were things he hadn’t been able to do in more than a decade. The second, however, was more complicated. He saw and understood the need for a shared calendar. Something that was always kept up to date in their unpredictable, prone-to-change-at-a-moment’s-notice lives. It made finding the cherished days, sometimes hours, they could steal away from their public to simply touch base and be together a lot easier than back when they had to rely on their assistant’s cooperation. In fact, working with shared online calendars had been Orlando’s idea after he had discovered he had missed his lover by nothing more than a mere 35 minutes at a layover in a back-of-beyond airport. They had been jetting from and to opposite sides of the globe, but by pure chance both their airlines had chosen the same out-of-the-way airfield for an intermediate landing. It would have been so easy to just “miss” one connecting flight to at the very least steal enough time for a kiss and a hug, for that badly needed reacquainting with the other’s feel and smell, that Orlando had uncharacteristically gone on a fury-fuelled rampage, trashing hotel china left from his room-service dinner after hearing his lover’s broken sigh following their discovery. But recognizing the necessity, the prudence, behind a shared diary didn’t help to alleviate that one problem it unequivocally laid bare: how very little time they had together and how much he missed having his partner at his side.

 

“So, where are you?” Orlando sighed softly as he flipped over, burying his nose in the cushion next to his in the virtually impossible hope to catch even the faintest whisper of his lover’s smell left in the fabric. It was fruitless, of course. The other man hadn’t spent nearly enough time in his temporary London home to leave lasting traces, and had been gone for long enough that even the faintest remains had long since evaporated.

 

“A five hour flight from you.”

 

“Not too far, then,” Orlando hummed, his spirit picking up. One of the major perks, or was that downsides, of their lives was that anything with less than ten hours of flight-time counted as moderately near. In the beginning of their relationship, even flights around the globe hadn’t deterred them from jumping on board to share an unexpected free day together. As they had aged and routine had replaced those first explosively passionate months and years of fresh love, the time they were willing to spend in transit in comparison to the time they actually had together, had slowly dwindled. These days, it was a rare occurrence, reserved for anniversaries, birthdays and outright situations of emergency, that anyone of them would board a flight longer than the hours they managed to share at their respective destination.

 

“Too far for both our schedules,” the man on the other end of the call cautioned apologetically after a few moments of barely audible clicking.

 

“I have late afternoon and evening off after rehearsal tomorrow, nah, today,” Orlando pointed out hopefully. He should have had the whole day off. One fucking whole day all to himself. So badly needed. But the director, breaking good old British theatre tradition, had called a six-week-in rehearsal to iron out some difficulties that had stubbornly refused to be resolved without his intervention.

 

“Flight times would have you back in London too late for the performance on Monday.”

 

His lover, contrary to himself it seemed, had made good use of their diary. And online flight schedules. Orlando groaned. He hated when stupid inconveniences like uncooperative flight plans put an end to his willingness to go and spend most of his time off on a plane just to see the man he missed so much.

 

“Meet in the middle?” he suggested hopefully in a last-ditch effort to not let the chance go to waste, now that he knew for a fact that his partner was just as desperate to see him. Late-night or early-morning study of flight schedules were usually not at the top of the list of things his nocturnal lover engaged in without a good reason or a massive case of blue balls.

 

“We could spend the night in Vienna. Before Sunrise style,” the other man suggested, his huff of amusement a balm on Orlando’s frazzled nerves.

 

“’m not in the market for remakes…” Not only that, he had had the dubious pleasure of having had to spend a night at one of Vienna’s airport hotels when a freak ice storm had closed down Prague’s airport during the filming of Carnival Row. He had to be in London for an important engagement the next evening and his only chance for reliably catching a flight had been a torturously long car-ride to Vienna followed by a restless night at the pit of hell that allegedly was an offshoot of the Marriott hotels, but turned out to be a pink nightmare filled with noisy, sleepless American tourists on a layover, a group of business people hell-bent on spending most of their travel allowance on drinking the bar dry before staging what sounded like a relay race on his floor, and a particularly enamoured couple, possibly threesome, in the room above him who fucked so athletically that the screws on his ceiling lamps threatened to come loose from all the banging. It definitely wasn’t an experience he was eager to repeat. Even if, in all likelihood, he would be the one being expertly fucked six ways to Sunday this time around.

 

"No? Whatever could go wrong with remaking a classic?" The caller's warm chuckle spoke of the fact that his expectations for the answer had been met. He had suffered through not one, but four annoyed, overly tired calls from Vienna that night, keeping him abreast of the relentless coupling and escalating drunken cheering preventing his lover from drifting off to sleep. The amount of grumbling and cursing filling the ether in the dark hours had been of epic proportions. Only a fool would have earnestly thought a proposal to spend another night on the site of this disaster would be met with enthusiasm, no matter the enormity of their shared desire to meet.

 

"Does _Psycho_ ring any bells for you, _Sam_?" Orlando smirked into the darkness of his bedroom. Not that he could argue against an opening scene featuring his naked lover, a light sheet clinging to the scarcely covered lines of his groin, teasing at the barely-hidden pleasures that lay beyond, just waiting to be laid bare, tasted, worshipped.

 

"Ouch! That's below the belt, brat!" His lover's affected wounded tones tapered off in quiet amusement. "You'll never let me live that one down, will you?"

 

"You know I always aim to get below your belt, babe."

 

His lover's chuckle caressed Orlando's senses like warm sunshine. “That you do, love, that you do.”

 

A shared quiet fell between them. A comfortable silence punctuated by their breathing.

 

Neither man was in a hurry to break the tranquillity that so eloquently spoke of their shared years, of the unsurmountable understanding and peace with each other they had fought so hard for. It hadn’t always been easy for them. At times, it had been anything but. They had fought, cried, despaired. They had hurt each other, clawed at their weaknesses, broken their trust. They had ripped out their hearts, torn asunder their relationship, and -finally- had gone their separate ways. But despite all that, they had never stopped loving each other. Deeply. Passionately. Irrevocably.

 

It had taken time, dedication, and the conscious effort to leave behind their jealousy and hurt to find their way again. Months of trivial emails had weakened the walls they had built around their shattered hearts, weeks of intentionally missed calls had seen their voicemails overflowing with careful messages of tentative truce, days of honest conversation had soothed the ragged edges of their battle weary souls, hours of unburdening their tortured hearts had led to startled understanding of where they had gone wrong, minutes of cautious embrace had started to mend their wounded hearts, and a breathless second of their lips’ first gentle meeting had rekindled the flame of a love that had never fully died even in the throes of a raging storm.

 

They had emerged from that near fatal blow with a new appreciation for the bond they share and a newfound base of absolute honesty that, even though hurtful at times, ran deeper than mere trust and held them firmly grounded together in the maelstrom of their demanding work and the glare of the public eye, and a much beloved addition to the family. The tiny wonder whose unexpected creation had irrevocably set in motion the events that had come so close to ruining them could have been an insurmountable hurdle in their reconciliation, but one gurgling, single-toothed grin had stolen the artist’s heart and sealed his fate. The years since that first meeting had tied the young boy and his father’s partner together just as firmly as a biological relationship could have. They loved each other with a fierce passion that only served to make Orlando fall in love with both his favourite people over and over again. They were family, and whatever life might throw at them couldn’t change that fact.

 

“I wish you were here,” the barely voiced words left Orlando’s lips on a sigh.

 

“I will be.” The reassuring answer came just as softly.

 

“When?” Lulled close to the brink of sleep by their easy silence and the darkness of his bedroom, Orlando’s voice had gone deep and dark.

 

“Soon, love.” An assurance. “And when I’m there you’ll take me to that lake.” A request. “Just you and me. Alone.” A promise.

 

“Yeah,” Orlando breathed, anticipation slithering down his spine. “Just hurry.  This weather won’t hang around.”

 

“Neither will I.” The husky murmur carried a fevered longing, a dark undercurrent of lust.

 

Silence fell again. Not quiet now, but heavy and laden with the promise of met desire and unrestrained passion.

 

A sudden increase of voices and activity in the background penetrating their bubble of burning anticipation alerted Orlando to the impeding end of their shared connection moments before his lover’s regretful words filtered through the line. “Gotta go, now. Talk to you later?”

 

“I’ll give you a ring when we’re done with rehearsal. Earliest some time mid-afternoon if we can deliver what Simon’s looking for.” Orlando sighed. Privately he thought that if they hadn’t hit gold yet, another day of unscheduled rehearsal wouldn’t make a difference. But maybe the firm hand of their director would help to alleviate the grudges that had developed between some cast-members within days of performing in front of an audience and had only grown worse ever since.

 

“Good. Take care.” The other man’s words were guarded, free of inflection. A sure sign that he wasn’t alone any longer.

 

“You too, babe. Love you… to infinity.”

 

“And beyond.” The two quiet words, still reserved, but definitely there before the call disconnected, left Orlando smiling as the sudden, excruciatingly bright glare of his phone’s display dimmed and shut down. They had outgrown their original promise of _to wherever it may lead_ , had learned that wherever wasn’t a desirable outcome when it saw them separated. When they had finally found their way back to each other, when they had re-built their relationship and created a family, they had also renewed their pledge. This time, however, wherever had been replaced with a firm vow of forever, with a clear promise to stand with each other and see their love grow and flourish not just until the end of their shared time, but _to infinity, and beyond_.

Curling himself around his lover’s pillow, secure in the knowledge that the other man was right where he belonged, at his side, if not physically then at least in spirit, Orlando drifted off to sleep again.

 

\----------------

 

“At fucking last… .” Orlando couldn’t bite back the heartfelt sigh escaping his lips as he pushed the front door closed behind him with his hip, falling back against the cool surface as he tiredly rubbed his closed eyes. He usually tried hard to keep his swearing under a tight lid whenever there was even a remote chance of his son overhearing his choice of words, but after the day from hell he had had, he fucking deserved to fucking drop a fucking f-bomb, or three. The rehearsal had gone as well as he had expected- that is to say, not good at all.

 

Calling in an unexpected rehearsal in the middle of a show run was an insult to the egos of British actors in the first place. What might be a regular occurrence on the continent, and in theory a valuable practice particularly when faced with scenes that unexpectedly fell flat in front of an audience, raised hackles when imported into his homeland. His fellow actors had seen the director's demand for a rehearsal as a slight on their mastery of their art.

 

For the first time since his return to the stage, Orlando had been grateful for his long stint at the movies. Adjusting nuances of his performance and minute adaptions to the character he had painstakingly developed didn't faze him any longer. He had long since gotten used to changing the tone, mood, and motivation of a scene during pick-ups, long after his original performance had been decided upon and delivered. And he had faced, adapted to, and survived his share of capricious directors, hell bent on turning the whole spirit of a film on its head when fancy or creative inspiration struck. With this hard-earned experience at his back, Orlando had entered the theatre this morning, confident that he could deal with whatever the day, and Simon, would throw at him.

 

He had been wrong.

 

Tempers had already been running high since well before he first stepped into the green room. A cancelled day off, perceived slights to professional prowess, and bruised egos made for a strained atmosphere. Factors in simmering personal resentments barely kept in check in this tense situation, and the rehearsal was nothing but an explosion in the making, bound to go off at any moment.

 

Between the thinly veiled insults traded by two of his fellow actors buzzing in his ears and his lack of a full night of bracing sleep, Orlando had been guzzling cups of watered down, tasteless coffee as if he were auditioning for the role of an addict at his first AA meeting, within moments of his arrival. Despite his best efforts, he could feel the first tendrils of a headache curl around his temples by the time their director finally deigned to grace his cast with his presence.

 

Ignoring the undercurrents of tension running rampant in the room, Simon had immediately launched into a detailed, but fair and factual critique of their individual performances. Orlando, to his quiet relief, had gotten away relatively unscathed, with just a handful minor points of criticism, most of which he had been aware of anyway. Others were less fortunate, earning him his share of evil eyes. Jealousy from other actors was something he had been dealing with since his first year at Guildhall. It had always been and still was a normal part of life at the theatre or in the film industry, and usually blew over as soon as the director or critic moved on to their next target. So he hid behind the rim of his umpteenth cup of coffee and stoically bore the glances silently accusing him of getting the ‘star treatment’.

 

In his time, he had found himself on both sides of the equation, at various times being either the least or best-known face of a cast. He knew how easily resentfulness could creep up on you when you found yourself continuously in the shadow of your more famous peers, no matter if their performance warranted such treatment or not. People tended to forget that he had not only first-hand experience on being the “unknown” one in a cast, but that he had seen his fair share of projects fall through in public or critical acclaim despite or because of the oh-so-famous lead.

 

Having a recognised name might at times help to open doors that would have stayed closed otherwise, but in the end it mostly carried clout with the ‘normal’ people, with those who paid good, hard-earned money for entry to films or plays, those whose days were made by nothing more than a brief meeting of their gaze and a smile of recognition or thanks. In their world, however, in the fiercely contested and often thankless business they were all part of in one way or another, a big name amounted to very little. Quite contrary, having reached a certain degree of fame more often than not attracted exactly the kind of attention that made their line of work such a hard and unforgiving environment. Critics fell over themselves in glee when given the opportunity to take a “star” down a peg or two, journalists felt like Easter, Christmas and their birthdays had fallen on the same day when there was photographic evidence of the public’s favourites acting and looking like normal human beings instead of the demi-gods they were often publicised as. Gossip was to be distributed and dissected, and other actors competing for the elusive place in the spotlight gladly used their jealousy as fuel for the ofttimes nasty power-struggles that invariably came with the territory.  

 

Fame, as he had painfully learned, was a false friend and rarely helped with those things he truly cared about. There had been many times in the years past when he would gladly have traded in his celebrity status for the chance to lead a normal life outside the public’s scrutiny. In an ideal world he would be able to love openly and proudly, the one he spent his life with, and take on projects he chose to, not because of what they had to offer for his career or the direction his people wanted him to develop in, but because he saw something in them that spoke to him, controversial or career-threatening topics or content and all. He didn’t give a rat’s arse about his status as ‘famous actor, Orlando Bloom’, and honestly wouldn’t care if everyone he met and worked with treated him just as they would treat ‘understudy whatshisname’. In fact, he would love them for it.

 

But that, at the moment, wasn’t on the cards for him. Fawning producers, enthusiastic backers, potentially molly-coddling directors, and resentful co-stars were his reality, and thus what he needed to deal with. And he was well-equipped to do so. Just as his co-stars tended to forget that he was just an actor struggling to get his character right and give his absolute best night after night in front of the audience whenever it suited their mood, they often overlooked the fact that he had spent his first formative year out of drama school in the company of some of Britain’s greatest thespians.

 

He had learned how to be an actor working in the real world, how to find your way into the head of a recalcitrant, stubbornly elusive character, how handle setbacks, adapt to changes, and celebrate successes at the knees of true masters of his craft. He had taken their counsel; he had watched, listened, and learned. Led by their example, he had become versed in how to interact with other members of the cast, how to make people forget the supposed difference between icon and struggling artist, how to create an environment where only the individual and what they brought to the table mattered, not the plays or films they had been in, the people they had worked with, nor the accolades and awards earned. And most of all, he had learned how to gracefully deal with criticism, how to put personal feelings aside for the greater good of the production, and how to work around brewing conflict without taking sides or adding fuel to the fire. So he did as his Rings co-stars had taught him and treated everyone the same, with utmost respect, appreciation and praise for their craft, honest interest in what they had to say, and an open mind and the willingness to embrace everything they had to share and offer to make him a better actor, a better person. He let unwarranted accusations of favouritism, bouts of unprovoked anger, and rampart jealousy slide off his back, never retaliating, never arguing back, never letting himself slip into a position of defensiveness.

 

He worked hard, was willing to learn, and tried his best to give everything he had to make his projects the best they could be. So it was without reservation when he discarded his latest cup of coffee, rolled up his sleeves, and jumped headfirst into the first of many runs through the scenes Simon felt were off.

 

By the time the director called their first break around mid-afternoon, Orlando had a raging headache and an extensive reminder of why exactly he had been ecstatic when he graduated from Guildhall and found himself free of the drama school’s curriculum. Simon’s first method of choice to combat pacing problems, an Italian run, had been fun. Not particularly helpful, but definitely entertaining since this type of fast line-delivery and action worked well with his innate, boundless well of activity and movement he never completely had grown out of. What had come afterwards, however, an eclectic mix of favoured and little used strategies of addressing timing difficulties, had quickly become pure torture. Orlando had been familiar with most of the exercises from his school days, and had quickly discovered that his dislike of all of them hasn’t dwindled with age. He tried his best, gave himself over to whatever method they were currently working with, but results were meagre at best. At least for him. It was hard, gritty work, the kind of exhausting labour that was the backbone of every play, which nobody in the audience ever realised had gone on for weeks, sometimes months, in order to successfully stage the polished, seamless illusion they got to enjoy every night of a run.

 

Orlando and his fellow actors had gritted their teeth, had fought exhaustion and frustration, had persevered, and, finally, had nailed that elusive something that tied a scene together and made it shine.

 

Orlando, for all his dislike of the exercises, had to concede that Simon had been right. Knowing how the individual scenes had felt during the last couple weeks of performances, gave him the needed perspective to acknowledge that something in the dynamics had shifted. For the better. And so a certain amount of pleased satisfaction was his companion when he ran out for a quick bite to eat at the nearest pub. Fish and chips were a guilty pleasure he seldom indulged in, but between his pounding head, severe tiredness, and the fact that his tentative plans to pick up Flynn and Mighty and embark on a little boys-only adventure that might or might not have ended in a spot of marshmallow-roasting over a probably illegal campfire were falling through, he felt that he deserved the calorie-dense treat to see him through the rest of the day. The only thing that could have made his short break even better, raising it from satisfyingly good to stellar, would have been to hear his lover’s voice. His hopeful call, however, had only connected to the other man’s voicemail. Leaving a short message, relating how rehearsal had gone so far and sharing the unexpected achievement of knocking down a few of their performances’ pacing issues, was an underwhelming substitution for even the briefest of conversations, and left him quietly disgruntled at their all too often conflicting schedules yet again.

 

In hindsight, he should have known that the temporary shared high of finally hitting gold on the pacing problems wouldn’t last long, and that his little lunch indulgence would come back to bite him in the bum.

 

About an hour back into the rehearsal, the fat and batter had congealed into what felt like bricks in the pit of his stomach. Simon had judged that the more relaxed post-success, post-break atmosphere was the right moment to address the elephant in the room. Apparently, and pretty much unsurprisingly, the ever present and growing tension between a pair of his cast members had translated to their characters as well, giving what was supposed to be a quite different relationship an aggressive edge that severely hampered their on-stage chemistry and subsequently hurt everybody else’s performance.

 

At first, actors being actors and neither shy in front of an audience, nor reluctant to let their inner drama-queens out full force, the two cast members had aired their grievances with each other in what quickly turned into a shouting-match of epic proportions.

 

This obviously long overdue release of escalating anger and hurt feelings could and should have been the end of it. But, as in any tightly knit group of people, and ensembles by definition of their jobs and the intimacy and vulnerability that invariably came with baring their souls and -at times- bodies on stage in the closed confines of rehearsal for weeks on end, were no different, those bearing witness to the final, explosive destruction of a friendship that had been crumbling to dust in front of their eyes at the most inconvenient time imaginable, became involved in the conflict. One ill-advised interjection, a certainly well-meant attempt to calm flaring tempers, was enough to shift the target of the emotional outpouring and ultimately set in motion the mudslide that soon encompassed all of their small cast. Caught up in the quickly spreading fit of temper, colleagues turned against each other, giving voice to simmering resentments and hurling insults at virtually everything present that dared to breathe.

 

Orlando, who like the small group of technicians present alongside Simon and his assistant director, had been prepared to sit back and let the conflict run its natural course, only briefly had the chance to mentally take notes on who said what, to do the unfolding scene justice when he later regaled his lover with his tale of woe, before he, too, found himself drawn into the raging storm of hurt feelings, angry animosity, unjustified allegations, and uncalled-for slights and insults.

 

Orlando had done his level best to not rise to the bait, had squared his shoulders in face of harsh criticism of everything from his taste in footwear to his way of speaking, had bit his tongue as he listened to a few cast-members extolling his many failures as an actor and a person, and had generally stoically borne the brunt of highly strung actors needing a convenient target. Once allusions to his sexuality had turned into all-out slander, and one particularly incendiary comment about the legitimacy of his son had cut through the general ruckus of raised voices, all bets had been off.          

        

Orlando, proving once and for all that he indeed belonged to the emotionally fraught theatre crowd by unleashing his inner queen, entered the fray. He had stomped and screamed, had cursed like a sailor in the couple languages he was fluent in and a few more, picked up from his multi-lingual lover, that he wasn't, and he had come perilously close to throwing a -very well-deserved- punch or two.

 

There was very little in his life he couldn’t shrug off or tolerate. Years in the media spotlight had hardened him against most forms of critique, ill will, and outright slander thrown his way. But there were a scant few topics left that had the power to cut deep, and make a haze of pure rage rip away all his inhibitions. He could shrug off accusations that he was _only here to keep your face out there until the next director with a million-bucks contract comes knocking_ (true, less for him but certainly for his people), he could easily face being told that he was _just as bent as I am, but too fucking scared to admit it_ (true, in parts), he was more than prepared to smile through allegations that he was _just fucking around with paid women to prove to his audience he wasn’t bent_ (definitely true), but the implication that _your supposed son is just another one of your pathetic publicity stunts_ had instantly brought his anger to a rolling boil. Nobody, absolutely nobody touched his family, verbally or physically, and walked away unscathed!

 

Orlando had clung adamantly to the last vestiges of restraint, somehow, miraculously, managing to keep his basic instinct to beat that slanderous asshole into a pulp, in check. But his barely controlled rage had to go somewhere. Without his conscious consent, words began to fall from his lips, and he was unable, and frankly unwilling, to stop himself. In short order he had found himself face to face with his colleagues, dishing out all the little and big annoyances that had accumulated over the past months, circling in on the various acts of unprofessional conduct that had had him gritting his teeth and quietly seething because someone once again had decided it was okay to turn up late, hungover, or -most disrespectful to all of the people working hard to get the show on the road- completely unprepared, and finishing up with all the professional and personal criticism he otherwise would never have aired in a public setting.

 

He had given voice to all those things he had only previously shared with his lover, safe in the knowledge that none of his frustrations and hang-ups would ever leave the secure confines of their long late-night talks. And once the words dried up, he had turned on his heel, left the room without a backward glance or acknowledgment of the various angry reactions, and had dialled the number with hands still shaking with rage of the only person he knew equipped to help him through this clusterfuck of a mess . But not before he had spectacularly lost his lunch.

 

Forty minutes, a myriad of cigarettes, and a brisk walk around Trafalgar Square later, Orlando had apprehensively stepped back into the theatre, Ian’s calming words still ringing in his ears. Against his instincts and the values his mother had instilled into him from early on, he didn’t apologise, but met his fellow cast members with squared shoulders and a steady gaze.

 

It had taken his mentor in all things theatre some time to make sense of the garbled, agitated stream of words assaulting him the moment he had answered the call, but once Ian had got the general idea what had left his young friend in such a haggard frame of mind, and had coaxed the pertinent details of what had been said to leave Orlando’s voice noticeably shaking with emotion, out of him, the experienced thespian had quietly, but insistently laid out a course of action for the younger man. Ian had, not inaccurately, pointed out that Orlando hadn’t been the one throwing out low, personal insults as if they were strings of beads at Mardi Gras, but had remained relatively objective and focussed on vocational misdemeanour in his anger. Yes, he might have said things he wouldn’t have brought up otherwise, and yes, he might have done it at the top of his lungs, but in contrast to some others he had stayed mostly on professional territory, and therefore shouldn’t go back grovelling, but instead steadfastly stand behind the things said. Orlando had argued, had pointed out that this wasn’t the kind of conduct he had learned from the other man, had reasoned that he wasn’t any better than his fellow actors, and had subsequently been gently told to shut up and listen to the hard-earned wisdom of an old hand of the stage.

 

Ian, though flattered to see his gentle guidance of so many years ago still rooted firmly in the younger man’s moral compass, had insisted Orlando let his reserve and good upbringing slide for once, and face his ensemble unrepentantly. Because whether he saw it like that, and whether he liked it or not, Orlando was the leading man of their play, and it wouldn’t help his already contested standing at all if he slunk back with excuses ready on his lips. He hadn’t been the one out of order and he hadn’t been the one who had set the ball rolling, and what’s more, he had only reacted once the argument had strayed from his person to someone he loved dearly. His fellow cast members needed to learn where he drew the line, and see their lead take a firm stance. Otherwise the jibs against his status as _the useless star who draws the audience_ would only find new fodder, ego-struggles would run rampart, and tensions would invariably escalate again and again, until the normal company infights would completely overtake their performances and ruin their run for good. And by standing by his criticism, Orlando had the additional chance to lead by good example. If he went back there, faced his peers and just got back to work without letting personal feelings interfere with his performance, he would set the benchmark for professional conduct the other actors would need to adhere to, to save face and avoid losing their peer’s respect. Everything else, Ian pointed out, was in his director’s hands. Simon could have intervened and defused the escalating argument at any point, but had clearly chosen to allow his actors to vent their frustrations, and get whatever had their play slowly disintegrating out in the open and off their chests, before it became obvious to the audiences.

 

It had been that last argument, that had finally convinced Orlando. And, as usual, Ian had been right in his counsel.

 

After his return, it had taken a few seemingly endless moments of wary, uncomfortable silence where the actors seemed to have been frozen in an awkward tableau of anticipated apologies or reprimands, but a decisive cough of their director, followed by the calmly delivered question asking if anybody felt the need to get something else off their chest, or could they get back to work now, to have the ensemble fall back in line.

 

The first few runs through bits and pieces of scenes Simon felt needed reworking were stilted and awkward for all involved, but once it had become clear that Orlando, despite his dramatic exit, was back to his calm, professional self and didn’t seem to hold any ill-will, the tension quickly dissipated as every actor allowed their character to take over.

 

Surprisingly, or not, considering Ian’s clearly superior understanding of how the theatre world and high-strung actors in particular, ticked, the remaining hours of rehearsal were not only productive, but there was a noticeable lack of the undercurrents of strain that had permeated their every performance for weeks.

 

There had been a general aura of satisfaction and quiet, tentative anticipation of the next day’s performances hanging around their little group when they finally exited the theatre well into the early evening. Not wanting to tempt fate and incur a resurfacing of _the star buying into his own PR_ attitude, and giving anyone reason to feel as if he thought their company was beneath him, Orlando steeled himself against the pounding headache that had been tormenting him for the better part of the day, and acquiesced to grabbing a pint with the other actors with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. He wanted nothing more than to find a quiet place and call his lover, let the other man’s voice wash over him and drain the tension that still held his muscles tight, but he knew this had to wait. During the previous months, he had begged off joining his cast for a post-rehearsal drink more often than not, citing the need to get home to spend some time with his family and put his son to bed. He understood that it might have looked like a brush-off from the other actors’ perspective, and was determined to last a couple of rounds today, and make sure to pay for at least one of them, before making his excuses and dragging his tired, aching body home. Unapologetically sticking to his criticism was one thing, extending a metaphorical olive branch in the form of well-deserved alcohol was another one altogether.

 

When he had finally managed to extract himself from a surprisingly calm and objective discussion of how they could make their freshly worked out changes to a scene work, more than an hour later, he was ready to drop and just wanted to go home and get swept up in the infectious enthusiasm and generally loving attitude of his son.

 

Speaking of which…

 

“Mighty? Flynn?” Orlando called out, still resting wearily against the door, eyes closed in emotional and physical exhaustion. Usually he got accosted by either dog or child, or both, the moment the lock clicked shut behind him, but today of all days, when he really needed a hug and some enthusiastic yapping to bolster his flagging spirit, the flat had remained oddly silent, despite him having seen the flicker of the television in the front room on his way up the drive.

 

“They’re not here... Your dad’s taken them home with him.”

 

Orlando’s eyes flew open as the softly spoken words, delivered in a quiet rumble from somewhere to his left penetrated his tired mind.

 

Words deserted him as he stared at the familiar shape leaning against the wall just a few scant centimetres away from him cloaked in the semi-darkness of the hall in shocked astonishment.

 

“You look terrible." A hand was extended, wrapping carefully around Orlando's wrist.

 

A wry smile curled the corner of his lips, silently acknowledging both the reference and the sentiment. "I feel like shit."

 

"Good I'm here then?"

 

Orlando let his head drop tiredly as he felt himself being tugged away from the door. "Yeah..." he breathed, as he gratefully sank into the waiting arms of the man he loved.

 

They stood like this for uncounted moments, Orlando leaning heavily against the other man, just breathing in the familiar scent that soothed his weary soul like nothing else could. Soft, regular puffs of warm, moist air tickled against his scalp where his lover's face rested against his bent head, the slightly taller man undoubtedly indulging the need to refamiliarise himself with his smell as well. A warm, strong hand gently rubbed calming circles between his shoulder blades, the familiar touch steady against the sweat-damp t-shirt, until, finally, the tension bled out of his taut muscles, his shoulders slumping down from their rigid set as his posture eased up in time with one last deep, shuddering breath.

 

The arm wrapped loosely around Orlando’s still slim waist tightened, hugging him impossibly closer as its twin slipped slowly upwards. Slightly callused fingertips ghosted over the back of his neck, leaving goose bumps in their wake, brushed lightly across the shorn sides of his head, briefly tickling the sensitive skin as they grazed the top of his ear, before slipping down, carefully skirting around the sharp, lightly stubbled angle of his jaw, tracing the bone until they came to a halt below his chin. The barest hint of pressure was enough to tilt Orlando’s head upwards, his eyes meeting the other man’s steady gaze for a long moment before they fluttered shut, long lashes resting against the slightly puffy skin below his eyes as his lover’s lips softly met his own.

 

Years ago, a kiss like this would have been fierce and vigorous, fuelled by untamed desire and repressed emotions. They would have fallen over each other, hands impatiently ripping at clothing with no regard for the garment’s survival in their frantic need to touch bare skin, while their tongues vied for dominance, their every movement fuelled by the strength of their desire and the barely restrained force of their need’s pending explosion.

 

Today, however, their kiss was barely more than a meeting of lips, shared breath, and his lover’s fingertips tracing almost imperceptible patterns along his jaw. It was a quiet _hello_ , a soft expression of _I missed you_ , and a grateful whisper of _so glad you’re here_. It was a silent reaffirmation of their connection. A tender manifestation of their love.

 

The fire between them had never died, the flame of desire still burning as hot as it ever had. Just as the gravitational pull that always drew them back together had never loosened its grip, but as they had aged and matured, the warmth of familiarity and comfort of having found their place with each other and in each other’s lives, had smoothed down the ragged, sometimes painful, edges of their violent need for each other. The blazing inferno of lust had turned into enduring warmth of the familiar, a steadily burning flame that gave comfort and serenity but could be stroked back to searing heat in an instant.

 

Some time  passed before Orlando ended the kiss with one last lingering caress of his lips. He didn’t move away, though, needing the feel of the warm solidity of the strong body against his to reassure himself that his lover wasn’t a mere figment of his imagination, a vivid illusion of his tired mind. Leaning his forehead against the other man’s, still sharing each breath, he slowly opened his eyes, quietly taking in the slightly blurred lines of his lover’s eyes, his straight nose, the gentle curve of his upper lip, and the strong lines of his chin. A wholly unexpected sight, but a most beloved and welcome one.

 

“I thought you were in…” Orlando trailed off, realising that he had never found out from where his lover’s early morning call had originated.

 

“I was.” A low chuckle puffed against his mouth, the sound vibrating through their connected chests. “And you weren’t listening.”

 

Orlando’s brows wrinkled in a silent question.

 

“I told you I was _a_ five hour flight away from you.” The now audible emphasis made clear that his lover had been speaking of a specific flight, one he had presumably been waiting to board, rather than general flight-time.

 

“Bastard!” Orlando’s huff of annoyance sounded suspiciously like a laugh. He couldn’t bring himself to move, though, so he contented himself with a lazy tap of his fingers to where they were resting against the swell of his lover’s arse, instead of the playful slap he would have aimed at the firm globe otherwise. He really wasn’t mad about this surprise visit, at all.

 

Again, long minutes passed in comfortable silence, marked only by the gradual progression of his lover’s fingertips down his body. The soft patterns traced against his jaw widened little by little, the gentle touch slipping along the shell of his ear, sliding down the side of his neck, tracing the curve of his collarbone laid bare to the other man’s fingers thanks to his t-shirt’s wide neck, briefly dipping into the hollow at the base of his throat before they retraced their way across his clavicle, rounding his shoulder, caressing the swells and dips of his biceps, tickling the soft skin inside his elbow, dragging down his forearm, before they finally slipped into his hand, intertwining with his fingers with a tender squeeze. Only then did Orlando give voice to the questions running through his head since the first moment he had seen his lover lounge against the wall of the hallway, silently watching him.

 

“Why? How?”

 

“You practically sent me a gilt-edged, written invitation. Did you really expect I wouldn’t move mountains after that video?”

 

Orlando smiled, shrugged. True, he had banked on getting his lover’s attention when he recorded the video, but he had envisaged satisfying but lonely phone sex, not the other man jumping on the next plane just to fuck him. They hadn’t done something like that in a very long time.

 

“I’ve been hard since I first heard that moan,” his lover confessed, underscoring his words by titling his hips, allowing the tell-tale hardness to rub against Orlando’s groin. “Damn inconvenient when I should be concentrating on negotiations.” The other man slowly, teasingly rolled his hips, grinning at the shudder that wracked  Orlando’s body. “Couldn’t concentrate at all. Couldn’t get the image of fucking you, wet and slippery in my arms, water lapping at your skin with each of my thrusts, out of my mind.” His lover’s grin widened, turned wicked, as the other man felt the growing answering hardness tightening Orlando’s jeans press back into him. “Figured it was only fair that you helped me out there. So I came.”

 

“Not yet,” Orlando parried, shifting his stance slightly, bringing their bodies into tantalizing alignment.

 

“Not yet,” his lover conceded, rocking his hips upwards, drawing a low moan from Orlando’s lips at the exquisite friction.

 

“What are we waiting for, then?” Lifting his leg, brushing it against the outside of his lover’s thigh, Orlando opened his stance, increasing the pressure on the other man’s groin as he rocked into him.

 

“Think the lake is abandoned yet?” The other man answered with a question of his own.

 

“Let’s find out…” Orlando grinned, his spirits suddenly revived; fatigue and headache all but forgotten as he turned in his lover’s embrace, tugging impatiently at the other man’s hand as he threw the front door open with an unbridled laugh.

 

\------------

 

It wasn’t until much later, when the last droplets of water still clinging to their skin slowly dried in the balmy warmth of a perfect summer night, their first, frantic coupling in the shallow waters of the lake’s edge long since passed, and their bodies still languidly relaxed from their second orgasms after making slow, tender love on the shore bathed in the cool, silver light of the approaching full moon, that Orlando remembered that his lover hadn’t answered his second question.

 

Rousing himself from his post-coital languor, he propped himself up on his elbow, pushing a wet strand of greying hair from his lover’s temple, darting in for a brief kiss, before asking, “How?”

 

Familiar with how his brain worked, the other man didn’t miss a beat. “Called at fuck o clock in the morning, cancelled the meeting.”

 

“What did you tell them?”

 

“That I was feeling under the weather and,” his lover shook his head, splattering Orlando with droplets of water, “that I needed to cool off.”

 

Orlando threw his head back and laughed.

 

 

_THE END._


End file.
